


Jaskier, Big Damn Hero

by Miah_Arthur



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood and Gore, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Roach is the Best (The Witcher), Serious Injuries, Whump, Witcher Potions (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27093100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miah_Arthur/pseuds/Miah_Arthur
Summary: Geralt kills the monster, but it’s a Pyrrhic victory given the poison flowing through his veins. Enter Jaskier, the hero bard, to bravely snatch him from the very jaws of death!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 34
Kudos: 184





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my betas: Maimat and Elia (mysterixn on AO3).

#  **Jaskier, Big Damn Hero**

###  **Chapter One: Old and Slow**

Geralt slashed at the monster, the one the villagers of Rakasing called the Hativin. It dwarfed him, the top joint of its legs taller than Geralt's head, and the gaping mouth wide enough to swallow him whole. The sizzle of silver slicing through the torso indicated this fight was nearly over. Good, because his Rook potion was waning. Everything felt heavier, slower, like the first steps onto dry land after a long float. The creature fell forward, its legs buckling underneath it. It screamed, the resonance making his head feel like it would explode. 

He stabbed it in the throat, cutting off the sound, and the monster spasmed. It thrashed over onto its back, its legs flailing as it died. One of them caught Geralt in the chest, three of its talons ripping through his chest armor as it knocked him across the clearing into the bluff wall. 

He shook his head. The resonance of the scream echoed in his ears, muting the world. No arachas he'd encountered or heard of screamed like that. He climbed to his feet, looking at the beast. He should have dodged that leg. He was getting old. Slow. Destroy the nest, and he'd be done here. Searing pain shot through his calf. Had he missed hatchlings? He swiped downward with his sword but met only air. Chittering came from inside the cave.

The pain faded, and his foot grew numb. 

Venom. 

More potent than he'd thought a monster capable of if it was burning past the Golden Oriole potion he'd taken before the battle. 

The chittering grew louder and came from multiple sources.

The numbness crept up Geralt's calf. 

He took the Wolverine potion from its special hidden compartment of his armor. He had monsters to kill. He chugged the potion. The effect was near-instantaneous. The pain disappeared. The knowledge that the venom was working through him far too rapidly disappeared from his concerns. 

All replaced by blind rage. 

He strode into the cave, sword at the ready. 

It had a mate. He'd thought the Hativin to be a simple variant on the general arachas monster form. Arachas, like spiders, eat the males. The male Hativin defended its young to its last gurgling breath. The young, Geralt stomped and slashed and tore apart until not a chitter remained. 

He stood, seething, seeking a new target, when the Wolverine potion wore off. 

He collapsed to the cave floor, among the broken bodies of the young Hativins. The slashes on his chest were heavily smeared with the green, viscous blood of the male—the mildly acidic and definitely poisonous blood of the male. Webbing splattered and entwined around his limbs.

He couldn't feel his legs. The paralysis rose rapidly, spread through his body by the increase in his heart rate caused by the Wolverine. With difficulty, he rolled onto his stomach and dragged himself out of the cave. He needed…

He wouldn't make it to his camp. He needed a sheltered place away from the carnage that would soon attract scavengers. He'd seen a rocky overhang not too far away. He could wedge himself in and wait this out. His mutations would clear the venom, or they wouldn’t, and he'd die.

He staggered to the bluff, falling to his knees in front of the overhang. The venom left him gasping. He hadn't expected that. He heaved himself onto his side, facing outward, ready to ride out the toxins ravaging his body. His hands and arms spasmed, shaking his whole body for hours of pained misery until they, too, fell numb and immobile. It grew harder and harder to breathe. Darkness closed in around the edges of his vision. 

His chest bled, and the hativin blood burned his exposed skin. He should be healing by now. 

He'd gotten old. And slow. 

But he'd killed the monsters before they killed him. 

His last thoughts were of Jaskier. He felt a keen sense of regret that they hadn’t had more time. Tempering the regret, Geralt also felt peace. In the end, he hadn’t been alone in the world. He had someone to leave behind, someone who knew his name, who’d mourn him. When Jaskier inevitably came looking for him, he wouldn't find himself envenomed and consumed. Geralt held onto that thought. He'd saved his bard one last time.

*** * ***

Jaskier finished his set to the clink of coins being dropped in his lute case. He winked at the handsome lad who dropped in the last coin. The young man blushed but stared with the kind of hunger that promised a free bed if Jaskier pushed only a little. He winked at the man, and the man gave a nervous flick of the tongue across his lips. Oh, definitely not spending the night alone. 

He'd rather be traveling with Geralt, spending the night with Geralt. He'd learned this trick over the winter that would drive his witcher wild, but Geralt had been elusive this season. When Jaskier found him—and he would—he wasn't letting him go until they had an agreed-upon meeting place for the spring. A frisson of doubt crept into his mind that perhaps there was a reason Geralt had been hard to track this year. That maybe he didn't _want_ to travel with a certain loud-mouthed bard any longer, even if said bard was devilishly handsome and knew how to take him apart in bed. 

The young man shifted nervously beside him. No need to waste this opportunity pining over his witcher. They'd never agreed to remain celibate after all. He wiped down his lute, collected his coin, and followed the man to his bed. 

The next morning while they were both lacing their drawers, Oleg said, "Did you hear about that Witcher that ran out on a contract in Rakasing?"

Jaskier stopped to watch him for tells. "No."

"White hair. Like from the song."

"Do go on."

Oleg smiled and leaned in close to Jaskier. "I thought that might catch your interest."

Jaskier ran a finger up Oleg's bare chest. "Very much so." _Because Geralt never takes pay upfront._

Oleg stammered. "Y-yeah. They hired him to kill a hativin. Heard nothing since."

Jaskier stood up, leaving Oleg looking confused on the bed. "Thank you for a lovely evening, but I really must be off. Taverns to play, that sort of thing!"

He dressed quickly and paused only long enough to purchase travel rations. If Geralt hadn't returned to collect his bounty, it meant he was wounded or— Nope! Not even thinking about that.

"Lot of rations, bard. You a slow walker?"

"And deprive myself of the best sausages in Temeria? Surely you aren't saying I will find better in _Rakasing_?"

The man snorted. "Quite right!" His sausages were good. Not to the degree Jaskier was praising them, but it was usually a safe bet to play on the rivalries of nearby villages. "You shouldn't head to Rakasing, though. Lone traveler like you isn't likely to make it past the hativin."

Jaskier played up his reaction. "H-hativin? What sort of monster is that?"

"Eight—"

"No, _twelve_ feet tall!" a villager shouted from across the room. 

This promised to be an exhausting conversation, but he couldn't leave now, or it would break his role. 

"Maybe, ten," the tavern keeper conceded. "Spiderkin. Two of the legs are arms."

"With six-inch claws on each finger!" 

"I'm the one telling this story, Kornel!"

"And you're doing it badly."

"Fellas, fellas, surely this hativin can't be _that_ bad, can it?" Jaskier said. Maybe they'd be willing to agree a few moments to correct him, and he could be on his way.

They laughed. 

"Not that bad!" 

"You surely are a stranger around here. The hativin has teeth as long as your little finger, and it's lower jaw splits so it can chomp you three ways at the same time."

"And it's got these long pincers coming out from the sides of its head that drip with venom—"

"To paralyze you, so it can eat you nice and slow!"

"And you're sure it only stalks Rakasing? I'll be safe heading another direction?"

"Oh yeah. It lives in the bluffs that overlook Rakasing. Can't miss them. They have a blueish tint to them. Rakasing used to mine copper out."

"Not so high and mighty now that's all dried up, are they?" the man in the corner called out.

"Well, you've certainly convinced me to head the other way. I better be off if I hope to make Seweryn by nightfall."

"You haven't even heard the best part yet."

Jaskier paused near the door. "Oh?"

"Rakasing went and hired a witcher to get rid of the Hativin, and got themselves fleeced." The man guffawed. "Probably wasn't even a real witcher. Just some conman. Those idiots in Rakasing wouldn't know a witcher if one kissed them on the mouth!"

"Right, those fools. Thank you for warning me off!" Jaskier escaped out the door before they could draw him in with more prattle.

He left town heading toward Sewerwyn, but as soon as he'd gotten out of sight, he turned into the fields and backtracked. He had plenty of time on the road alone to wonder what in the names of the various gods he thought he was doing. If this monster killed Geralt, what could Jaskier do about it? Killing him wouldn't even be a twitch in its monstrous step. But that was just silly talk. Of course, it hadn't killed Geralt. 

The land sloped gradually downward into a shadowed valley. An expanse of forest lay at the foot of the slope, between Jaskier and the supposed safety of Rakasing. From his vantage point on the ridge, he saw smoke from village fires rising in lazy spirals beyond the trees. To his right, the gentle slope became steeper, sharper. The ridge extended past the forest's far edge, ending in a craggy prow of bluish cliff that loomed over the village. 

The road cut through the forest, running parallel to the cliffs. Long before Jaskier was ready to face the threat, he was in the woods. Trees reached their knotted contorted branches over the sides of the path, and Jaskier quickened his pace, casting furtive, suspicious glances at every woodland sound.

He found Roach grazing in a clearing bordering a small stream.

She was dragging a picket. 

_Shit._

Jaskier approached her slowly. He and Roach had a decent relationship once she had a chance to remember him. Her nostrils were flared, and she leaned away from him. He offered a bite of pilfered carrot. Roach shook her head at him and took a step back. 

"Easy girl. It's me, Jaskier. Remember?" Roach's ears pointed to him. He had her attention, at least. He sang gently to her:

"No sweeping exit  
Or offstage lines  
Could make me feel bitter  
Or treat you unkind" 

Roach took a step forward, sniffing toward his hand. "That's it, girl." 

Roach took the carrot, her lips and bristly chin hairs rubbing over Jaskier's palm. As she chewed, her eyelids relaxed, so only half her eye was visible. Jaskier stepped in close and patted her neck. 

"There's a good girl." He offered another piece of carrot, and Roach accepted it readily. "Let's get this awful line off you, shall we?"

The picket line was buckled to one of Roach's front legs, and sweat and dirt had gotten underneath it. Jaskier fed her more carrot before trying to work it loose. She stamped once but relaxed when he unbuckled it. She snuffled at his ear, begging for more carrot, and he gave her the top to chew on while he rubbed her leg down. It didn't look like she'd developed any sores from it. 

"Let's go, girl." Jaskier looked around the clearing. He found drag marks from the picket all over the clearing. Roach had wandered the whole grassy area. There! Broken twigs and a clear line in the softer soil under cover of the trees. 

Roach nudged his elbow with her head. 

"You know that's a rude habit, don't you?"

She whinnied at him. 

"Yes, well, no carrot for you until you're polite again." He walked forward, hoping she would follow him since he had no halter or lead rope for her. 

She stayed close and kept her head to herself as Jaskier followed her trail deeper into the woods. It ran along the bank of the stream. He found Geralt's camp not too far off the road. Far enough to thoroughly leave the road behind. Far enough to make Jaskier even jumpier than he had been. A wall of rock, about as tall as Jaskier blocked the site from the road. The ashes were cold in the fire ring. Something had torn into the saddlebags and scattered the contents. 

Geralt's potions and ingredients lay scattered across the clearing. Jaskier gathered them up and carefully returned them to the bag. He gave Roach a careful look. He needed her. If the monster lived, she might be able to outrun it. Otherwise, if Geralt hadn't returned to camp, then Jaskier needed a way to move him. 

"For treatment. Because he's fine. Right, Roach?" He gave her more carrot as he brushed and wiped her down. He hated the delay, but if she bucked him off because of grit under the saddle, where would he be? Jaskier gulped. "Or worse, you could get a sore, and then what would _Geralt_ do to me? Mmm, girl? Nope. No way I want to see what happens if he finds out I mistreated you."

Finally satisfied that she was in good shape, Jaskier checked the saddle and tack. He could do this. Geralt had made sure of it… He'd just never done it without Geralt double checking things. And-and usually he could wheedle Geralt into lifting the saddle into place. He _could_ do it. The darn thing was just so heavy, and Roach was so tall. 

"Okay, Roach. This is a good time to stay still. You hear?" Jaskier threw the blanket over Roach's back and smoothed it down. So far, so good. 

He flipped the stirrup and straps on the far side over the top of the saddle and hoisted it level with his shoulder. Roach turned her head toward him and snorted. She stared at him without blinking. 

He sang softly, " _Toss a coin to your Witcher, O Valley of Plenty!_ " Roach turned her head forward again, continuing to sing, he heaved the saddle up and onto Roach's back. 

She danced sideways and snorted at him. He moved slowly, rubbing her neck and singing in the tone he knew she liked, and she calmed again. 

"Well, now. That's the hardest bit, right?"

She whinnied and tossed her head. 

"Or not."

Jaskier cinched the girth and secured the straps, but it didn't look quite right. It felt tight every time he pulled on it, but when he looked back, it seemed loose. He gave Roach a narrowed eyed glare. "You're holding your breath, aren't you, you naught—No, no—my fault. I know what to do here. But first, the bridle."

The bridle went on well. Roach always took the bit well, and even though Jaskier fumbled the curb strap and had to adjust the length of the cheekpiece three times, she didn't try to bite him. He checked the throatlatch. "No good choking you, now is it, dear Roach?"

He took the reins and led Roach in a circle around the camp. "And now to fix your cinch issues. Could you imagine? Getting an injured, crotchety Geralt on your back and then that saddle sliding right off!" 

She whinnied at him and tossed her head. He sped up to a jog and took her around thrice more. He was puffing, and he figured Roach would be breathing enough now to not be able to hold her breath. Jaskier pulled the cinch and was rewarded with a good length of tightening. He put the saddlebags and blankets up and secured them. 

The innkeeper said the monster lived near the bluff, and he could still see them peeking from the trees, so he concentrated his search for Geralt's trail in that direction. It was no use. Geralt was far stealthier than a horse dragging a picket line.

After one last check of the saddle, Jaskier hiked his foot up to the stirrup. His knee was nearly against his chest. He knew how to ride a horse. He did...on flat clear roads and in training arenas. Geralt never let him ride Roach alone. He gripped the reins and as far across the saddle as he could reach. Roach stepped forward as he pushed off, and he lost his balance. He had a moment of vertigo as she danced again. 

He let go of the reins and jumped free. He tried to jump free. His toe hung in the stirrup, and when Roach stepped forward again, he fell into her side. He held on for dear life as she shied away. 

The reins. 

He caught them and pulled back until Roach stopped. The whites of her eyes were visible, and her nostrils flared. Jaskier looked back at her, breathing hard himself. 

"That— That was a bit not good." He extracted his foot from the stirrup. "We can do this, Roach. We have to. You want Geralt back as much as I do. Otherwise, you'll be stuck with me, and I barely keep myself fed without him." 

He led her around the clearing again, and the familiarity of following calmed her. 

"So, obviously, I'm impressively flexible. You should hear—" Jaskier cleared his throat. "Right. Not the time for that. I've got to get up there, Roach. If we come across that monster, we've got to run. You understand? If we find it alive, then Geralt's—Fuck I'm getting maudlin. What did I forget last time?"

He led her near a boulder and scrambled up onto it. "I'm too short. That's it, isn't it?" Roach looked at him and twitched her ear. "You're right, of course, you are. I'm as tall as him, so it's just me. I'm glad this is amusing to someone. Here we go again. Reins and mane. Saddle. Lean. And over." He settled into the saddle. Checked his balance and fixed his feet into the stirrups. 

"Finally! Let's go rescue a Witcher!"


	2. Boom!

###  **Chapter Two: Boom!**

Jaskier found a worn trail between the trees and let Roach follow it. The trail's existence made the skin on the back of his neck tingle. What made this trail out in the woods away from humans? The leaves rustled in the distance, and Jaskier hunkered down in the saddle. 

He patted Roach's neck. "It's okay, girl. Geralt definitely killed the monster. Definitely. This is a great idea. Imagine the song. The heroic, fearless bard saving the Witcher."

Giant webs draped the trees ahead of him. 

Jaskier's mouth went dry. Roach's ears swiveled hard to the right, and she pulled that way, trying to step off the path toward the bluffs. Jaskier stopped her. "Look, Roach. The webs were cut away from the path. Geralt came this way. We have to keep going."

She snorted at him and jerked to the right again. It took all Jaskier's poor skills to keep her on the path and get her moving forward again. He leaned low over her neck and thanked the deities that Geralt was so tall. They passed under the webs without touching them. A short tunnel of webbing opened out into a clearing against the base of the bluffs. 

A giant mandible stretched toward them, and Jaskier shrieked. Why had he come out here? Why hadn't he listened to Roach? She reared up on her hind legs and whinnied. Jaskier remembered too late that he needed to grip with his knees. He landed on his back. Hard. The breath knocked from his lungs. Roach spun and raced back through the tunnel. 

Jaskier coughed and spluttered, trying to draw air back into his lungs. For long moments he thought of nothing else. When he drew a deep enough breath to notice anything else, he found himself inches from the worst set of teeth he'd ever seen. The lower jaw was longer than his arm. It was splayed open, and clouds of flies buzzed in the air. 

He shook his head and laughed. 

Dead. 

Of course, it was dead. Geralt had been on the job. Jaskier stood up, checking himself for injuries as he did. He was going to be sore tomorrow, but he'd escaped broken bones. He'd take that win. 

"Geralt?"

He gingerly stepped away from the monster and got a better look at the clearing—a second monster, almost as large as the first, lay dead near the mouth of a cave. A dozen tiny monsters lay scattered around, smushed and very dead, but no Geralt.

"Please tell me you aren't underneath one of those things, Geralt." 

Jaskier glanced at the cave. Its dark maw reached for him in the dusky light. He swallowed. He could do this. He needed…

"Fire. We need some fire. Where the fuck are you, Geralt? You'll be ever so grateful when you learn that I am, in fact, carrying a kit to start fires this year." He took the flint and steel from the tiny pouch on his belt. "Just like you told me. See?"

He looked around the clearing. An old dead tree leaned into the clearing. Its gnarled branches reaching for him like the claws…

Jaskier shook his head. He had to hurry. The sun would set soon, and he had to find Geralt and Roach. He made quick work of starting the fire. The branches he broke off—take that graspy, clawy things!—were bone dry, and the flames leapt up.

The light flickered and danced on the inside of the cave walls. Masses of egg sacs clung to the walls and floor, even the ceiling. No Geralt. Most of the sacs had been sliced open, and half-formed infant monsters littered the floor. Thick, black blood and viscera congealed into an unholy mess. The scent burned Jaskier's nose. It was pungent, almost sulfuric, and his head felt strange when he stepped inside to be certain Geralt wasn't in there somewhere. 

He was about to turn away when the light of the fire played across an egg sac in the entryway. Black dots speckled through the webbing. He swallowed. Those would hatch someday. He looked at the fire and picked up the largest stick. The end burned bright. 

"The bard knew exactly what to do. He bravely slew—No, no, that won't do." 

He hummed a different tune as he approached, trying to convince himself he was the brave bard in the song he would craft. The flame touched a shred of webbing. It whooshed, consumed so fast that Jaskier patted his hair to be sure it hadn't been singed. Were they all flammable? He waved the flame at the intact egg sac. It didn't whoosh like the dusty string of webbing had. 

It was evening now, and dark fell fast under the trees. He'd lost Roach. He hadn't found Geralt. And he had no idea how to destroy a defenseless bunch of eggs. Jaskier yelled in frustration and threw the burning branch away from him.

_Boom!_

A blast of heat slammed into Jaskier, and he fell backward. The entire cave was engulfed in flames. Jaskier patted himself down frantically to be sure his clothes weren't on fire. No burns, but the explosion had felt like it hit his face… His hair. It felt like—his fingers had ash on them. How could he earn coin with his hair destroyed? As the flames died down, the horrible odor of burnt hair overrode the stench that had pervaded the area. 

Jaskier felt sick. If he'd been a step closer… If the fire on the branch had grazed anything while he was inside the cave… 

Jaskier wiped his mouth and stood up. The fire in the cave was low enough he wasn't worried about it escaping into a forest fire. He had to get out of here. He was no monster hunter. He'd been a fool to think he could help Geralt. 

Stamping in the woods to the left of the path set his heart racing. His night vision was shot by the fire. Underneath the canopy, the shadows deepened into concealing darkness. He crept forward. "R-Roach? I-is that you?"

A whinny answered him, and Jaskier nearly collapsed to his knees with relief. He stepped off the path, placing his feet by feel. He moved from tree to tree in the direction he thought the horse noise had come from. Creaking, stamping, a lazy thwap of a tail. It was either Roach or his string of very bad decisions was about to come to an ignoble end. 

Roach nickered. 

"Oh, thank goodness." He pushed through the last screen of vegetation and saw Roach standing in a clearing large enough to hold four of her standing shoulder to shoulder. Light reached the ground here, reflecting from the cliff face, making it brighter than the setting sun should be in this small gap in the foliage. "You're a princess. No! A Queen of beasts, Roach. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise." Jaskier leaned in close, pressing his forehead to the horse's neck. "I can at least get you out of here. It's—" he sniffled. "It's what Geralt would have wanted."

Roach jerked her head away from him, toward the bluff. About knee-high, a crude gash marred the stone. Roach wouldn't be so calm if a monster were in there, but Jaskier smelled the same stench that had permeated the nursery cave. 

There could be more egg sacs inside that hole. Jaskier gulped, but he'd done this much. He had to check. The crevice was deep and sharply sloped down. He crouched and saw something wet glistened on the rock face. 

"Fuck. I'll have to go back for—" 

Did he just hear? He held his breath and listened. Wheezing. 

"Geralt?" Jaskier patted at the darkness. A shoulder. Head. Human hair. "Geralt!" 

No answer came from the Witcher except another weak wheezing breath. 

"Fuck. What do I do? What do I do?" The smell of the monster blood made his head hurt when he leaned in to get a better look. The space Geralt had crammed himself into trapped the fumes in with him. "Get you out of there. That's what I do."

Jaskier grabbed Geralt's arm and pulled backward. Geralt barely budged. "How are you so heavy?" He braced his toes against the wall and hauled with all his might. Once he got Geralt moving, he kept pulling, backing up until only Geralt's feet remained in the hole. 

"Now what? Are you still?" He sank to his knees beside Geralt. "Geralt? Are you still breathing?" Geralt's armor was shredded over his chest, and panic shot through Jaskier. "Right. I can't hear it if I'm talking, so I stop. Definitely. Stop." He clamped a hand over his mouth and drew in a shuddering breath. There. He heard it. Faint. Wheezing. 

"Oh, thank fuck! A potion. A potion! That's what you need." Jaskier sprang up and checked the saddlebags. "They said those things had venom. What's for venom… Think Jaskier. Think. Golden Oriole! It's this one. Definitely."

He turned back to Geralt. "...But you have to swallow this for it to work. He pulled Geralt's feet from the hole and lifted Geralt's head and shoulders with one arm. "Come on, Geralt. Just a little drink. Please don't choke on this." 

Jaskier waited until after Geralt had drawn in another breath, then tipped the bottle into his mouth. "Come on. Come on. Yes!" 

He sat there. Leaned against the rock, listening to Geralt breathe. After a few minutes, it grew deeper and stronger. 

The shadows were creeping from the trees, reaching for them. It would be full dark soon. The escape toward a safer location had to happen _now_. No way could he lift Geralt onto Roach's back. Good thing Geralt taught his horse to lay down for an injured rider to mount or overly large monstrous bits to be secured to her back. 

Jaskier took Roach's reins. "This is it. Time for us to work together, girl." He pulled the reins over Roach's shoulder, turning her head away from him and tapped her shoulder in the signal he'd seen Geralt give her. She snorted and stamped her foot, trying to toss her head. He tapped her again, and she huffed at him, but knelt and then lay down. "Good girl, Roach! Good girl. Good girl." He rubbed her neck and shoulder while she ignored him in favor of nibbling on the sparse grass. 

Jaskier steeled himself to not look at the blood and _green ooze_ before he turned around, but yellow, faintly glowing in the dying light, caught his attention instead. "Geralt!"

Geralt's eyes slid closed again, and he groaned. 

Jaskier hooked his hands under Geralt's arms. "I've got you. Roach is here. We'll get you out of here." Roach knickered at him when they got close, her nostrils flaring. "I know he stinks, Roach, but you can do this. I've _seen_ you carry worse." She twitched her ears at him but turned back to the grass. 

Sitting propped up against Roach, Geralt swung his head side to side, not managing to raise it. Jaskier crouched in front of him. "There isn't any way to do this gently or gracefully, I'm afraid." He hauled and dragged Geralt into the saddle. Fresh blood trickled from under the chest plate. 

Jaskier got low enough to make eye contact. "I need you to hold on when Roach stands up." Geralt nodded, the motion barely there. Jaskier placed Geralt's hands on Roach's mane and squeezed until Geralt made a weak fist on his own. "Good. Hold on. Just like that."

He took a step back. "Sweet Melitele, please don't let him fall." He gave the reins two tugs and tapped Roach's shoulder. "Up, Roach." Then he hopped back to be out of range of the ungainly mess that is a horse getting up from the ground. 

Geralt listed to the side, and Jaskier leapt to drag him back to the center of the saddle. His eyes squeezed shut, and his breath came in ragged gasps, but he stayed in the saddle when Jaskier let him go. Jaskier took the reins and led Roach out of the clearing. 

Jaskier kept glancing back at Geralt. He sank lower and lower over Roach's neck until, with a sigh, he collapsed, one arm hanging loose. Animal noises in the underbrush might be a fluffy bunny. Yes. Definitely. Nothing but a fluffy bunny. Not wolves or monsters full of sharp, pointy, venomous teeth. He kept them moving on the trail. Full dark dropped faster under the trees than he thought possible. Out in the meadow, he'd have plenty of time left to make a camp and see to Geralt's wounds. 

Jaskier let Roach lead him forward. She moved a slow ramble, sure-footed on the path. Geralt might fall from the saddle anytime. Besides causing more injuries, falling in the dark meant staying wherever he fell until light. Geralt would skin him if he found out, later on, that he'd asked Roach to lay down in the dark. No. Not an option. The campsite Geralt left at least had some sticks gathered and access to water. Geralt deemed it safe enough to leave Roach. 

A faint light ahead let Jaskier place his feet with more confidence. He took the leads again. Stepping out of the claustrophobic tunnel of trees and underbrush into the open campsite made Jaskier shaky with relief. "The brave bard carried his injured friend to safety—" Roach snapped at him. "Roach! Fine. Fine. Everyone is a critic." He tied the reins to a branch. "Forgive me. I'll get you settled soon."

He took Geralt's feet out of the stirrups. "Are you awake at all?" Jaskier asked him. 

"Hmm."

"Oh! I didn't think you'd answer. Excellent. We've got to get you off this horse." 

Geralt tried to speak, but Jaskier couldn't understand the faint, scratchy sounds.

"Fuck. I should have given you water! How long were you in that hole? Right. Right. Off the horse. Fuck. How do we do this without pulling you in half?" He tapped Geralt's cheek. "Can you get your leg over?"

Geralt shook his head. 

"Just get on with it, Jaskier. The blood's not flowing _into_ him." Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt's chest. The position put his weight off-center, and Roach stamped, shifting her back feet to keep her balance. 

"Now or never, brave bard," Jaskier told himself. He heaved backward, dragging Geralt from the saddle. He staggered under Geralt's weight and fell. 

A cry escaped Geralt but turned into coughing. 

Jaskier held him upright until the coughing passed. Roach shifted not far away. Too close for comfort if she decided to dance around, yet the darkness concealed her. He should have been faster. Started a fire sooner. Not taken so long to get the saddle on Roach… The trees closed in on him. Night sounds. Insects. Movement in the underbrush.


	3. Your Bard in Shining Armor

###  **Chapter Three: Your Bard in Shining Armor**

They had to survive the night in the woods. That's all. No big deal. 

He slid out from under Geralt. They needed a fire. He needed to see how badly Geralt was hurt, and it would keep the beasts of the night away. He sniffed his hands. "Bleh! You are definitely flammable right now, Geralt. And so am I."

Jaskier looked at the vaguely lighter patch of darkness that was his hands, and back to… Well, to Geralt's hair. The white was the only thing he could make out. He patted his way to the fire pit, a few feet from his flammable companion, collecting sticks as he went, and swept the leaf litter and detritus away. 

"I'll have you know, I had very different plans for our reunion than this. The things I do for you, Geralt! I can't believe I'm doing this." He stripped down to his braies, tossing his clothes back toward Geralt. At least all the crawling and leaf removal had taken the smell of Hativin blood away from his hands. 

He'd used most of his tinder to light the last fire, but he still had char cloth, and the rustling in the woods was motivation aplenty to succeed. He fumbled with the sticks he'd gathered to form them into a tower roof shape over a bunch of leaves. With only enough tinder for one try, he didn't want to risk moving it once it was burning, so he tucked it in at the base of the sticks. A piece of char cloth on top, and he just had to make a spark. His hands were shaking, and the first several strikes made nothing. 

Just as Jaskier was getting truly desperate, a spark jumped to the cloth, and an ember flared to life. Jaskier gently pushed the cloth deeper into the tinder and blew on the ember. It caught in the fluffy tinder, and a small ball of merry flames danced before him. He pushed it further into the leaves and kept blowing on it. The leaves caught, and the fire filled the stick structure. 

"Success! I knew I could do it. Never doubted for a moment. Right, Roach?" 

The horse snorted. 

"Tough crowd." Now he could see the immediate area, and he gathered up more sticks and leaves. He kept the fire going hot under the sticks until he was sure they were burning, and then he added larger ones outside of those. The wood didn't catch as quickly as the dead tree had in the monster den, but he managed. Two years ago, he couldn't get a fire going to save his… Maybe not such a good turn of phrase right now. 

"So much to do. Priorities, Jaskier. Fire first. Then horse. Then Geralt?" He refused to look at Geralt. If he let himself think about the injuries, he wouldn't be able to concentrate on the fire and Roach, and if he let either of those go, he'd be killing them all. Jaskier went as far as he dared away from the light of the fire gathering sticks. After he'd rolled a giant chunk of a tree trunk over to the fire and built it up, so the flames licked at the base of it, he turned to the horse. 

Jaskier tied the picket line to a tree and then buckled it around the front foot it hadn't been dragging from earlier. "There we go. No missing horse in the morning. Let's get that stuff off you, then." He worked in reverse order. First, removing the saddlebags and equipment and not looking at Geralt. 

Not looking. _Not looking_.

Then he removed the bit and bridle. Roach stood still for him, much calmer now than she had been earlier. "You missed him, didn't you?" 

Roach snuffled at his chest. 

"Looking for more carrots? I have a few more left." He retrieved one from his pack and made a note to move it out of Roach's reach before he slept. She took the treat and chewed calmly, so he faced removing the saddle. Unbuckling the cinch and getting ready to move, it was far easier than getting it ready to ride. He just had to lift the equivalent of a ten-year-old child from above shoulder height. 

"Piece of cake compared to a Witcher, right?" His muscles protested the whole way. He carried and played a lute for a living. Lifting saddles and witchers over his head was not in his job description, thank you very much. 

He lifted carefully, not wanting to risk putting Roach in a bad mood again. The saddle safely on the ground, Jaskier removed the blanket and gave Roach a perfunctory wipe down. He rechecked the fire and added more sticks and leaves. 

"Alright, Geralt, now I can…" 

Geralt looked terrible. His armor hung in shreds across his chest. Okay, Jaskier had seen that earlier, but concentrating on it was different! Blood, both his own and hativin, covered Geralt's upper body. One of his legs was swollen and-and green slime— 

"I'm going to be sick." Jaskier stumbled into the woods and vomited. He didn't have anything in his stomach to vomit with, but his traitorous body managed somehow. 

He staggered back and knelt beside Geralt. "You are still breathing, right?" Geralt's chest rose and fell as if in answer to his question. "So glad we can have these sorts of riveting conversations. It's a good thing I got that fire going because you're going to be cold in a few minutes. That armor simply has to go."

Jaskier began loosening straps and buckles. "How does—? Oh, I see. This belt goes through this loop, and then through here. Fuck. Geralt, you have to promise me that when you wake up, you won't be angry, because I think I may have just disassembled your armor."

He splayed the armor open. The smell set him gagging again. Blood and gore soaked Geralt's shirt. Jaskier cut it open, saving the few clean scraps for later. He wiped the worst of the muck away with the ruined pieces. Blood oozed from the lowest claw mark. That worried Jaskier less than the foul-smelling pus festering in the other two wounds. The skin across Geralt's chest was tight, shiny, and reddish-purple. Heat radiated from it. 

"I thought this couldn't happen? Your mutations…" 

Geralt shivered. 

"Right, right. I need to hurry. You're probably feverish… I should wash this." Jaskier rubbed a clean...ish piece of cloth on the cake of lye soap they kept for laundering and poured water over the putrid mess. He dabbed at it, tentative, afraid to cause more pain, but it didn't remove the pus. Jaskier gulped, trying to settle his stomach. He scrubbed harder. The odor went straight to Jaskier's stomach. 

When he regained control, he picked up the cloth and began again. Geralt's breaths turned into short gasps, and his whole upper body trembled. Jaskier shook along with him. Jaskier tensed as he pressed the cloth against Geralt’s skin. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

Underneath the foul-smelling discharge, Jaskier found woodland litter embedded in Geralt's flesh. A massive weight sank into his stomach. It hurt, but better pain than retching. With another moistened, cleanish scrap of cloth, he picked the debris from the wounds. 

Geralt's chest muscles twitched, and he moaned. Tears misted Jaskier's vision. He'd never intentionally caused another pain before. Jaskier finished. His hands shook, and his breathing matched Geralt's rapid pace. "You can wake up now. Anytime."

Geralt's brows furrowed, pulling his hair into his eyes. Jaskier brushed it back. Sweat dampened Geralt's face, but he was cool to the touch. "I'll hurry. I shouldn't be taking so long." Jaskier draped the blanket over Geralt's chest. 

Now the leggings. 

He needed to damage them as little as possible. Geralt needed those, but the swelling in his left leg pressed tight against the leather. He hesitated a moment longer. It would hurt. He doubted Geralt had enough coin to repair the chest piece and replace the pants. The buckles were crusted over with dried...entrails? from the hativin. Jaskier chipped it off with his dagger. Shimmying the leggings off worked well down to Geralt's knees. 

Jaskier laughed at himself. He'd forgotten to remove Geralt's boots. The laces refused to loosen. If he had the time and soaked them, the thick, black hativin blood would loosen, but Geralt shivered half-naked on the bare ground. Saving the leggings was costing him enough time. Laces were cheap. _He'd_ buy Geralt new laces. He sliced through them and freed Geralt's feet. 

The tension in him had broken under his own foolishness, and he quickly got Geralt's right leg out of the armor. "I swear, Geralt, I'm doing this out of love." 

Jaskier gripped the bottom of the legging and pulled, twisting and keeping the pressure up. Dried hativin gore cracked off the outside of the leather. With the most disgusting slurping, sucking sound Jaskier'd ever heard, the legging came free, and Jaskier fell on his butt, holding the filthy armor. 

He'd thought the smell coming from the chest wound was revolting. In comparison, he'd been wrong. 

The woolen hose Geralt wore under the leather leggings were beyond saving. Jaskier sliced the legs and folded away the entire front. Deep, black, circles half a handwidth in diameter dripped black, rotting...flesh. The skin around it dimpled and puffed unnaturally like over risen bread, but in shades of red and purple. His foot was blue-greyish—dead looking.

Jaskier's heart quelled. 

He swallowed heavily. "Right. We can deal with this. You're a witcher. You've survived worse. Right?"

Geralt didn't respond. Not that Jaskier expected him to, but his breath had settled into a slower rhythm, stronger and steadier than when Jaskier pulled him from the hole. 

"That will need more than soap and water. Don't have much water left anyway," he muttered to himself. "Strong spirits to chase away the evil. That's what the old healer used to say." He rummaged through the disorganized mess of the saddlebags until he found vodka. 

He hesitated less over these wounds than he had the ones on Geralt's chest. Geralt didn't react, as Jaskier scrubbed the rot and pus from the injuries, and the fear grew. The smell hung in the air, and Jaskier fought the urge to build the fire higher against potential carrion eaters. The center of the wounds was deep, too deep for no blood to flow. 

Jaskier cut Geralt's spare chemise into strips. If he had to get Geralt to a proper healer in nothing but a blanket, so be it. He snugged the blanket around Geralt's shoulders and stroked his cheek. Geralt turned into it and made a confused noise. Tears trailed down Jaskier's face. Geralt hadn't felt anything Jaskier did to his leg. Any healer worth their salt would say the only possible way to save the man was to lose the leg. 

Jaskier rubbed salve into wounds and over the damaged, mottled skin for good measure before wrapping it with the cloth strips. He wiped the rest of Geralt down as best he could. "Can't have you exploding into flames, now can we?" he said, forcing cheer into his voice. 

He rolled and shifted and tugged until he managed to get Geralt onto the bedroll. A pair of spare braies remained, but Jaskier was _not_ dealing with _more_ moving and rolling. Besides, he might need the cloth for bandages. He did put the extra socks on Geralt's feet—for the warmth. It had nothing to do with not seeing the corpse-like cast to the skin of the left one. Dragging Geralt into the space between the wall of rock and the fire went far smoother with the bedroll underneath him. 

Jaskier sat beside the fire, his knees drawn up, arms balanced on top. What happened to witchers that were maimed? Would other witchers take them in? Execute them for being weak? Why were these wounds not healing?

He needed to give Geralt water. He had to wash first. The stream burbled happily along its course, not far away. He took a burning brand from the fire and started a second fire at the water's edge. The water looked black in the night, the firelight picking out the white caps of rocks breaching the water's surface. He hadn't looked at the stream at the camp yesterday, but when it crossed the main path, it was inches deep and clear, clean, bubbling over a rocky bed. No chance of drowners. He washed his hands and filled the cooking pot with water. Geralt ate and drank all manner of horrid things, but Jaskier refused to take risks with the mutations apparently not working. 

After putting the pot in the ashes to heat, Jaskier fed Geralt small sips of the remaining water from the skin. 

Geralt opened his eyes, but they were unfocused. "What?" he croaked. 

"Your bard in shining armor."

Geralt frowned, and his eyes closed. 

Jaskier feared sleeping. What if he woke to find Geralt dead? He washed their clothes in the stream and hung them on bushes to dry. Not busy work, he told himself. The smell of decay couldn't attract beasties if it had been safely washed away by the stream, right? In between items, he sat on Roach's blanket and warmed his cold, stiff fingers at the fire. He added powdered bone marrow to the boiling water and got Geralt to drink the whole thing. 

He sorted through the potions, trying to identify them. Why didn't Geralt _label_ them? Of course, he knew them all without thinking, but that didn't help now, did it? He'd gotten lucky on the Golden Oriole. He'd watched Geralt brew it several times last year, so he had certainty in his choice. Would Swallow help wounds this old? Which one was it? He narrowed it down to a handful of similarly colored potions. If only Geralt would wake up to tell him the right one... 

Jaskier checked the wounds on Geralt's chest as the sun rose. The pus had begun building up again. He should have scrubbed it with the vodka, but he hadn't. Geralt hadn't woken up. The wounds hadn't healed. He had to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [ Tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/miahclone/)for Witcher fic-recs, snippets, occasional prompt fills, and just because I love talking about these awesome characters.  
> 
> 
> If you enjoyed my writing and would like to reblog this story, you can [ do so here!](https://miahclone.tumblr.com/post/632932490658676736/jaskier-big-damn-hero-chapter-3-your-bard-in/)


	4. Aard

###  **Chapter Four: Aard**

Liquid poured into Geralt's mouth. He swallowed it, desperate for a drink. Thirst awoke. He wanted— _needed_ —more. Weakness pervaded his limbs, his head, his eyelids. He wanted more but couldn't move to seek it. 

Searing pain scored across his chest, burning through him, into him. Something dug into the burning, chasing it. Had he missed a hativin? Another creature? The thing scrubbed back and forth across his chest, burning, shredding. A scream tore from his throat. Energy and rage flooded his mind and body. He bolted up, blindly grabbing the thing assaulting him, squeezing and shaking it before hurling it away from him. 

His heart raced. His hands shook. His eyes focused at last. His chest was a mess of partially cleaned wounds. Infection ate into them. The reddened skin and swelling… How had it happened? His mind spun with the need to fight. Attack. Move. A familiar whinny behind him. He blinked. His campsite. An empty vial. Werewolf. Other potions of similar color sat near it. 

Thoughts swirled, challenging to string together. He'd been rescued. Taken to the camp. Given the wrong potion. His legs didn't move with his thoughts. One was entirely numb. His swords gone. His clothes gone. 

The danger. Where was the danger? 

A groan. Geralt's full attention snapped to the body across the clearing.

What had he done?

Jaskier coughed and sat up. He shook his head and groaned again. 

Geralt tried to force his legs to move. _Trapped_. His heart rate ratcheted up. The potion pushed him to _act. Fight. Destroy the threat._

"Jaskier?" Red handprints stood out on his bare arms. 

" _Geralt_?" He clambered to his feet, his movement stiff. "How are you feeling?" He stepped closer. 

Geralt's hand reached over his back for his sword of its own volition. He clenched his fists. _Naked._ _Disarmed._ "Stay back."

"Geralt?"

"The potion. Stay back."

Jaskier stopped. "It wasn't Swallow?"

"Werewolf."

He looked stricken and rushed forward. Geralt snapped his fist at the threat on instinct, stopping himself a hairsbreadth from Jaskier's face. 

"If you can manage to control yourself for a heartbeat. Show me which one is Swallow. You need it, and when this one burns out of your system, you probably won't be able to tell me."

Geralt's breath shook. He could have killed Jaskier. One strike was never enough under werewolf. "There," he said through gritted teeth. "Get back. _Please._ " 

"After you drink it." Jaskier's heart beat faster than usual, but not fast enough. He should be afraid. Geralt had already hurt him. Had almost hurt him again. _Would_ hurt him again if Jaskier didn't _fucking move_. 

"Back off!"

Jaskier didn't move. He didn't understand. Worry creased his features, but not for himself. He should be worried for himself. 

"Take the potion, Geralt."

The need to fight, to pummel anything and everything near him, to eliminate all threats—and everything that moved was a threat—he hadn't prepared for this potion. Taken unaware. Woke up under attack. His legs immobilized. _Never take this near anything you don't need to kill to survive_. Geralt shook his head, opening and closing his eyes. Jaskier crouched in front of him. A faceless threat. Jaskier. A threat. 

_Aard!_

Nothing near him. Quiet. 

The potion ran its course. Geralt collapsed. 

"Geralt?" the voice echoed from far away. 

A hand on his face turned his head. Jaskier appeared above him, mouth still moving, but Geralt heard nothing but echoes. Blood spilled from Jaskier's nose over his mouth. The movement caused disorientation. A vial touched his lips. Geralt pressed them closed. He didn't want to risk losing control again.

Geralt's mind wandered. Why did he have his mouth clenched shut? Jaskier upended the vial, and Geralt swallowed before he recalled the answer.

* * *

Jaskier lowered Geralt back to the ground. He'd taken the Swallow potion. A drop of blood splattered on Geralt's shoulder. 

"Fuck." Jaskier swiped the back of his hand across his chin. He needed to get that stopped, and he hadn't finished cleaning the wounds on Geralt's chest. Jaskier tested his shoulder. He winced and aborted the motion. Damn. Why hadn't he listened? He'd been so focused on getting the right potion... Geralt said, _please_. The wild look in his eyes as he yelled, 'Back off!' The stupidity in _not listening_ neared suicidal, and it would have killed Geralt along with him.

Geralt had been so frantic, the drive to fight--attack--so clear, but he hadn't followed through, hadn't jumped to his feet and pressed his advantage. He hadn't even rolled up into a crouch to better defend himself. _He hadn't moved his legs at all_. The spider bite; had there been paralytic venom? The wounds weren't that bad or weren't before they'd gotten infected, yet Geralt had crawled into a hole so near the nest, and his breathing had been so shallow... The white honey must not have cleared all of it. Oh Melitele, what if it was _permanent_? 

Jaskier took a deep breath. "One thing at a time, bard," he sternly ordered himself.

A fresh trail of blood snaked down his face. The muscles in his back screamed when he stood up. He stole the cloth he'd been using on Roach to press to his nose and stumbled to the creek to wash his face. The shock of the cold water woke him, but he needed to sleep. What good was he to Geralt if he couldn't keep his eyes open? His leggings and chemise were dry, and the warmth sunk into him when he put them on. 

He stoked the fire and added a large piece of wood to it before crawling between Geralt and the rock wall. Heat absorbed from the fire radiated from the stone, soothing Jaskier's aching muscles, and he fell asleep in moments. 

* * *

Geralt woke warm. The scent of burning oak wood surrounded him. Roach's tail swatted nearby. Shallow running water babbled further away, and Jaskier snored behind him. Idyllic. He squeezed his eyes shut. Not Idyllic. Wrong. A lie to himself? A hallucination brought on by the fumes? 

The dream was pleasant, but he refused to let himself dwell. He opened his eyes. Not a dream. He sat up, and the blanket pooled in his lap. His clothes were gone, and the wounds had been cleaned. The afternoon sun slanted rays of light under the canopy of trees. The fire had burned low, but the coals were still hot. The need to relieve himself urged him to move.

His right leg responded sluggishly to his efforts to move. The left disappeared from his senses below his knee. He hated to wake Jaskier, but he didn't think he'd make it across the camp on his own.

Jaskier lay curled on his side, Roach's saddle blanket under him, dressed in his undergarments. He hadn't taken any of the blankets, and he shivered in his sleep. A blood-stained a cloth pressed under his cheek. Blood had dried on his face trailing from his nose. Geralt jerked his hand away, scalded by the memory of anger and confusion. Blind rage—the need to lash out and kill the threat. 

He'd… squeezed, shaken, thrown… _Aard_. Had the punch connected? He shook his head. He didn't remember. After he cast _aard_ , he didn't know what he'd done. How much damage? Fear coiled in his gut. He shook Jaskier's shoulder to wake him. 

Jaskier shot up, scrambling back against the wall. He clutched the shoulder Geralt shook and groaned, but excitement and joy colored his voice when he said, "Geralt! You're awake? How are you feeling?"

"I hurt you."

Jaskier waved the statement off. "Not to worry! I should have listened when you begged me to get back. It's my fault for giving you the Werewolf potion thinking it was Swallow."

"How bad is it?"

Jaskier rolled his neck and right shoulder. "A bit stiff, but I did heroically drag you out of a hole and load you onto Roach's back, so not exactly my normal form of exercise." 

The lascivious wink was meant to distract, discourage further questions. Geralt wasn't letting it go that easily. 

"Answer the question! I don't-I don't remember what I did."

Jaskier shifted to concern and rolled up onto his knees. "You got me away from you. Nothing more."

Geralt shook his head.

"I'm not afraid of you, Geralt. You got me away from a danger I was too stupid to avoid on my own."

"Me."

"No. The potion. That I gave you." He winced and glanced down. "As much as I would love to continue to argue this point, I need to go water the bushes."

Jaskier retreated. He guarded his left shoulder, keeping the arm pressed against his torso. A few minutes of crashing through the bushes later, he returned, a bundle of sticks braced against his chest with his right arm. 

He dropped them by the fire and crouched in front of Geralt. "Can you move your legs yet?"

Geralt tried to shift. "The right. A bit."

"The spider-thing bite was poisonous? It will wear off, right?" his voice was higher than normal, tight, and he held unnaturally still waiting for Geralt's answer. 

"Venomous. I didn't eat it," Geralt said. He waited until Jaskier spluttered something about _'Semantics? Now?'_ before continuing. "It will. It's improved already."

Jaskier nodded, his breathing a little shaky, and reached for Geralt's boot. "If you can hold some weight, we can do this."

"Let me look at your shoulder."

"No, no, no. My shoulder is perfectly fine, thank you."

"Jaskier."

"Alright! It's not fine, but it will be. Do you need to go or not?"

Geralt shut his mouth. Without Jaskier's help, this wouldn't be pretty. The right boot slid into place, setting off pins and needles. He watched Jaskier pull the left boot on, saw his foot move as limp, dead weight, and felt nothing. 

"It'll be fine. You're a witcher! The healing will kick in now that the poison is gone and you can breathe."

Geralt didn't say anything. He'd never heard of a witcher suffering an injury like this. 

"Hmm, this is going to be awkward, isn't it? Wrap your arms around my neck, I think. Pull you up and hope your leg holds. Do you know the story of the one-legged hare? Hilarious story."

Geralt glared at him. 

Jaskier swallowed. "Yes, well, silly story anyway, and completely inapplicable given you have two legs—"

"Jaskier."

"Stopping now."

"I need to get over there sometime today."

Jaskier leaned in and let Geralt grasp on. He wrapped his good arm around Geralt's back. "On three. One, two, three!" Jaskier heaved, and Geralt clung to him, disgusted by the way his muscles shook. Pain shot up his right foot, but his knee held. 

"We won't be able to go far. Toward the creek. Ready?"

Jaskier took most of his weight, wincing turning into grimacing after only a few steps. Geralt braced on a tree to relieve himself. 

Jaskier stood aside, "I shouldn't have slept so long. We can't make it to town before dark now."

"Rakasing doesn't have anyone that can help."

"They owe you coin that you need."

"Doubt they'll pay now."

"Who can help?" Jaskier asked, slipping under Geralt's arm.

"Mage, possibly. Where are you taking me?"

"Stream. You're filthy, and maybe soaking in the water will help clean the wounds."

"It might."

Jaskier lowered him onto a sun-warmed rock at the water's edge. "I couldn't save your underclothes."

Geralt squinted at him, and seeing the hint of teasing in Jaskier's eyes, he threw his head back and laughed. "I can forgive that one small lapse."

Jaskier smiled at him, but his expression turned serious, and the scent of fear sours the air. "A good long soak! That's what this leg needs." 

He removed Geralt's boots and socks, and, too worn out by moving across the clearing, Geralt didn't protest. The smell of decay assaulted him as Jaskier removed the bandages. No amount of soaking would save it, and Jaskier must know that, too. He let the bard fuss over him, move him into the water—too cold, far too cold for comfort—scrub the dregs of dried blood and hativin gore from his body and hair. 

After he was dry and wearing Jaskier's spare chemise over the healing wounds on his chest, laying on the bedroll near the stream, shaking from exhaustion as Jaskier continued to fuss, to chatter hopeful nonsense of healers and time over the sour smell of fear, he had to speak. "Neither healers nor time will fix this, Jaskier."

His hands stuttered to a stop, midway through wrapping clean bandages around the decaying wounds. "No. Geralt. You'll be fine. I wasn't—" He turned away. "I was too late."

"No, I got slow, impatient." 

Jaskier's breath hitched. "Wh-what do we do now?"

"Eat. Sleep. Tomorrow ride away from here."

"It's not going to get better on its own, is it?" 

"No."

Jaskier sat up straighter, wrapping the bandage with sure moves. "There will be a proper surgeon in Vizima. Better than any hack job, some local barber could do. They can-can save something." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I've seen men walk on false legs. A good surgeon. Th-that's what'll make a difference."

"Triss Merigold."

Jaskier's face brightened, though his scent exuded fear and sadness. "You already know a surgeon? That's fortuitous!"

"A mage. Best healing magic I've seen."

"So, there might be a chance?"

"She likes me."

"Ah! Finally, someone who properly appreciates brooding and rugged good looks! I must meet this mysterious mage." Jaskier pulled braies and hose over Geralt's feet, then socks, and his boots. "Your right leg is getting better?"

Geralt shifted it, scrunched his toes. The heavy, unresponsive feeling had given way to pins and needles, but those were easing. "Better. I'll be able to travel tomorrow."

Jaskier helped him up again, took his weight as they moved back to the fire. The sun would set soon. Jaskier took care of the fire, checked on Roach, and heated travel rations. By the time he passed a plate to Geralt, the weakness had passed, and he sat up without help to eat. 

"Jaskier. I need to know how badly you're hurt."

He shrugged. "I'm fine."

"Jaskier."

"We will have to go through Rakasing to get to Vizima. You need a trophy to prove the kill, right?"

"Yes, but—"

"The lower jaw. One of them, anyway." He nodded and picked up Geralt's silver sword. It was tarnished and pitted. "Will I need this to cut it, or will the hatchet suffice?"

"You can't go in there. I'm not sure I got them all."

"They're gone." He touched his hair, and Geralt realized it was burned into that shape, not cut. "The stories didn't mention them being so flammable."

Geralt blinked at him. "Flammable?"

"I'll tell you later," Jaskier said, a roguish grin covering the fresh wave of fear coming off him. "When I'm back with that trophy!" He darted away, onto the trail to the hativin den before Geralt could make sense of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [ Tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/miahclone/)for Witcher fic-recs, snippets, occasional prompt fills, and just because I love talking about these awesome characters.  
> If you enjoyed my writing and would like to reblog this story, you can [ do so here!](https://miahclone.tumblr.com/post/633151389197090817/jaskier-big-damn-hero-chapter-four-aard/)


	5. Rakasing

###  **Chapter Five: Rakasing**

He'd let the _bard_ traipse off with his silver sword. What was wrong with him? Witchers don't retire. They get old and slow, and they die. Hoping Triss could revive a deadened limb verged on fantasy. What would he do short one leg?

He flopped onto this back and thought of the sick and crippled beggars on the streets of Novigrad. Would that be his fate?

No. He wasn't human. Whether by human or mage hands, he would die, pathetic and alone, a broken and discarded relic of another era. 

The wounds were centered mid-calf. He had no feeling below his knee. He'd seen men with false limbs. Hobbling about. Slow. Awkward. If the decay stayed below his knee, he might be able to mount Roach without assistance. He had to keep his knee. It gave him options. 

If he did the right thing, the thing _expected_ of him, he would find a contract. A hard one. He'd die as a witcher should: facing a monster with his silver blade in his hands.

The image of the bard's young—so very young—face twisted in fear and pain swam into focus. He couldn't let the bard follow or find him with a final monster. His inevitable death could not kill the one human who tolerated him.

Kaer Morhen then. Vesemir would do the right thing and make sure Jaskier had no rumors to follow to his death. It wouldn't be hard to get rid of the bard after he made it clear there'd be no more monster hunting. 

* * *

Jaskier whistled a jaunty tune as he marched out of camp. It was simple. Jog back to the terrifying monster den. Cut a piece of the rotting beast off with a semi-stolen sword and carry it back...with one arm. Now that he wasn't putting on a brave face for Geralt, he could admit his shoulder hurt horribly. Moving hurt. Walking hurt. Pulling on Geralt hurt. Everything hurt. 

The smell and the flies and rot...he'd have to rewash his clothes to be sure he wouldn't catch fire. He wanted to run his fingers through his damaged bangs. He sighed. It would grow back. _Eventually_. He'd get this grisly memento... _Grisly memento of the_ …no that didn't work. If he had his lute, he could...his shoulder twinged vindictively at the thought of holding it, and a moment of panic shot through him. 

He'd starve! _They'd_ starve. It took time to heal, even for witchers. It must, because Geralt would heal. He'd be back to monster slaying in no time. They'd be back to traveling together. Jaskier would write the song. Everything would be _fine_.

The webs encroached on the path, looming, grasping at his hair and clothes. Had there been so many yesterday?

Jaskier gulped and muttered about bravery and overcoming and being a hero until he stood facing the dark corridor of webbing that led to the hativin den. His mouth felt stuffed with wool. A waterskin. He should have brought one. That's all. His feet felt like lead as he forced them to lift and step, lift, and step. He held the sword in front of him. The tip wavered and shook. 

"It's dead, Jaskier. You can do this. You've already done it once, remember? He took the final step. The monster's abdomen had exploded outward. The spreading pool of black goo writhed with maggots. Flies buzzed, beetles swarmed, and the smell...oh the smell! It invaded his nostrils, coated his tongue, soaked into his hair and clothes. Would there be enough soap in the world to remove it? He could write an entire ballad on the smell alone!

The lower jaw hung by a thread of connective tissue and skin. His small dagger made short work of severing it. He rolled his eyes. He'd lugged this unwieldy sword all the way out here for nothing. The jaw's thick, irregular shape meant he couldn't grasp the handle of the sword and the jaw at the same time to balance them on his shoulder. 

"Disgusting! The things I do for you, Geralt!" he grumbled, pressing them both to his side with his right arm. 

Going toward camp put a bounce in his step. The shadows deepened under the trees, as they had the day before. He gulped. Geralt listing in the saddled, nearly unconscious, haunted his steps now. He'd left Geralt defenseless, in the open, without even a dagger within his reach. Jaskier broke into a jog, ignoring the jolts of misery with every unbalanced, hurried footfall. 

He skidded into camp to see Geralt blinking at him, concern clearing sleep from his expression. 

"Is something following you?" He rolled up onto his good knee. The position precarious, but he persisted. "Hand me the sword. I can—"

Jaskier yelped and looked behind him. Had he led something right to— Nothing followed him, but Geralt's senses were better. He would know. He darted to Geralt and handed him the sword. 

After several tense moments, Geralt frowned. "What was chasing you?"

"Me? I thought you heard something!"

Geralt dropped to the bedroll, chuckling. "Nothing. There's nothing out there."

"How are you feeling?" He grabbed the chemise without waiting for an answer, hiking it up to see for himself. "Would another dose of swallow help?"

The wounds hadn't healed as much as he'd hoped. The potion was meant to close wounds and stop bleeding before an infection set in, to keep this from happening. Pus had reappeared, clogging the wound, preventing healing. "I'd heal faster if you cut the infected tissue away."

Jaskier jerked back like he'd been burned. He shook his head. "I'm not doing that unless there's no other way to save your life."

Geralt sighed. "There are four doses of swallow left. Tomorrow, scrub this, make it bleed, then I'll take the potion." Jaskier's face paled. "I-I can do it myself. You don't have to watch."

"No. If that's what has to be done, I'll do it."

Geralt lay back on the bedroll and watched Jaskier busy himself around the camp, washing his clothes, preparing food, fussing. When he finally lay down beside Geralt, burrowed under the blankets with him, Geralt tried to ease him into accepting the situation. "Where will you go after you take me to Vizima?"

Jaskier didn't answer for a few heartbeats. "I'm staying with you."

"I'm going home afterward."

"Why? Your mage will fix you up, and there is the rest of the season to travel."

"Even if she does, I'm done for the season."

"Then take me with you. You don't need to be alone."

"No, Vesemir will be there." 

“Another Witcher?” 

“My father. Or as close to one as I’ve got.” Mentioning Vesemir proved to be enough of a distraction to get the bard to forget about hounding him, so Geralt spoke of his mentor until Jaskier had fallen asleep

The next morning, Geralt's right leg worked as it should. Jaskier found him a long, sturdy branch, and he was able to hobble the few steps from the bedroll to the bushes and then to the stream. Jaskier insisted they wash Geralt's leg again. The black, rotting circles had grown overnight. Liquefied flesh sloughed away under the onslaught of the water. The purplish doughy swelling of the diseased flesh surrounding the wounds had spread, creeping over Geralt's knee. The only comfort he had was that it hurt. He hadn't lost feeling. There was hope for saving his knee. 

Jaskier proved too squeamish for the task. He tried but was soon vomiting in the bushes. Geralt sucked in a breath and attacked the wounds with the cloth and soap. He removed as much pus and rot as he could. The wounds bled sluggishly. He didn't take the swallow. Bleeding might help wash the toxins from the injury. Jaskier fussed over bandaging the leg, and Geralt let him. 

"What do you think about the armor, then? Wear it?" He looked skeptical. "Or well, I suppose we'll have to find a way to fasten it to Roach's saddlebags?"

"It was a loss, wasn't it?"

"Nope! I saved it, though I may have disassembled the upper bits."

Geralt didn't like the idea of entering a town without armor. The alderman, Anton Hubreld, and the village had been friendly, kind, enthusiastic to see him. The monster had nearly destroyed their town, and Jaskier's songs had worked their magic, but he knew how fast sentiment could turn on him. Saving money was a powerful motivator to take advantage of weaknesses. If the armor could be salvaged, he needed it. "Let me see." 

Jaskier produced it with a sheepish expression. 

"It's fine. A few buckles are undone." Geralt tugged the armor on and struggled with the buckles until Jaskier took over. Geralt gritted his teeth at requiring help for such a small thing. 

He required more help to get to his feet and to get onto Roach. He had no intention of dismounting before they set camp. Jaskier set a fast pace, faster than they'd generally travel. Even with the late start, they reached Rakasing before noon. Fatigue pulled on Geralt. The trip to Vizima loomed in his mind. He'd endure for Jaskier's sake, but it would only get more uncomfortable as the death crept up his leg. 

"I'll find Alderman Hubreld," Jaskier said, hefting the mandible.

"Be careful. Polite. If they refuse payment, walk away."

Jaskier gasped and pressed one hand to his chest. "You have so little faith in my abilities? After they hear my tale of your brave deeds and foul misfortunes, they'll be begging to double your pay!" He danced out of reach before Geralt could stop him. 

"Jaskier!"

"Be back in a tick." 

He strode into the tavern with a confident swagger, and Geralt tried to keep himself from fidgeting. Children appeared from somewhere and stood in a gaggle near the corner of the building, giggling and pointing. Raised voices drifted from the tavern. Geralt shifted in the saddle, clenching and unclenching his fists. He couldn't fight like this. If the villagers attacked, he couldn't protect Jaskier. 

The door slammed open, and a thin man darted out. He rushed toward Geralt, and he braced himself for an attack, but the man sheered off toward the stables instead. Jaskier and the alderman strode out. 

Jaskier was gesturing expansively toward Geralt. "There you see a close personal friend of the King of Temeria! The hero that slew not one, but two full-grown hativins and thousands of their spawn!"

Hubreld hurried forward, his hand extended, not in threat, but to shake. "Geralt! We feared the beast had killed you. If we'd known there were more than one; we certainly would have told you. Please forgive us. I've sent my best man to race to Vizima—"

As if to punctuate his words, the thin man galloped by on a horse. 

"He'll be able to reach the city by tomorrow evening," Hubreld said proudly.

"Why is he riding?" Geralt asked. 

"To contact Triss Merigold, of course! It will be far better for her to travel to you by portal than to take you to her."

"We don't—"

Jaskier stepped in close under the guise of petting Roach, and whispered, "You saved Foltest's daughter. They owe you, Geralt."

Geralt swallowed his retort and changed it to, "We don't wish to impose."

"The hero that saved our town? It's no imposition! Come, let us get you into a proper bed and have our healer do what she can while we wait."

Geralt gave in. He let them help him off Roach and up the stairs to a room. The healer cleaned the wound and bandaged it with clean cloths. 

When Jaskier left to get food, she said, "You realize that if the mage doesn't come through, that it'll be too late to save any of your leg?"

Geralt sighed. "I know."

"But you'll wait?"

"Yes."


	6. Promises

###  **Chapter Six: Promises**

Geralt slept through the first afternoon in Rakasing. He woke to the sound of Jaskier muttering lyrics about a brave bard and humming. Not playing the lute. His arm sat in a sling now. Geralt swallowed guiltily at the sight.

"Ah, Geralt! What do you think of, _'The bard did bravely enter the lair of the hativin, and found the beasts slain in their foul den.'"_

"I think your meter needs work."

"Oh?" Jaskier grinned wickedly. "You _have_ been paying attention when I talk about composing."

Geralt pressed further into the pillows with a groan. "No, I haven't. That was clearly the ravings of an ill man."

Jaskier set his notebook aside and pressed his hand to Geralt's forehead. "You don't look that great, you know."

"I've been told I'm quite handsome."

He chuckled, but his expression turned serious. "It's spreading fast."

"Yes."

"Why now? You were in that hole for days."

"My heart was beating slowly even for a witcher, and the infection took time to build. Doubling of one is two, but…"

Jaskier licked his lips. "Yeah." His hand found Geralt's and grasped it. "Your mage will be here soon."

After the evening meal, Geralt fell asleep again, lulled by the soft bed and warm blankets and a feeling of growing lethargy. He woke before dawn, intense pain thrumming through his thigh. 

Jaskier woke with a start. "What's wrong?" 

"It's fine," Geralt gritted out. 

"Pain? I'll get the healer."

"No need to wake her."

"I'm not lying here listening to you hurt."

"So don't listen!"

Jaskier hopped out of bed, the dipping of the mattress setting off a wave of agony that he bit down. He returned with the healer only a few minutes later. He should have known that Jaskier hadn't run away, that the bard never had the good sense to be afraid of him. 

The woman twitched the covers aside, revealing reddened skin and large blisters over his thigh. She tutted. "Take this, and I'll do what I can." 

Geralt sniffed the potion she handed him. Poppy milk. "Wait for the sorceress."

"Even if it means your life?"

"No witcher has ever died in bed."

"Drink the potion, and I'll try to keep you from being the first."

He nodded and drank it. The rest of the day was a haze of pain and poppies. His next clear memory was Triss, with her red, curly hair sitting beside the bed looking wan and exhausted. 

"Triss?"

She smiled. "At least I won't have to worry about you storming off before I've finished treating you this time."

He darted a look at his leg and sighed to see his toes sticking up. 

"Oh! I didn't mean to worry you. It's there, and I should be able to restore full function. It'll take time. It took everything I had to eradicate the infection and stabilize the wound. Geralt, what attacked you? I didn't think anything could affect a witcher like this."

Geralt settled into the pillows. "Neither did I."

"What was it?"

"Something new. I expected an arachas. Possibly a venomous arachas based on the descriptions. People exaggerate size and features. You have to learn to filter to the truth. The truth was far worse."

"Jaskier told me about the fumes and their explosive nature."

"Never seen anything like it. The fumes only came with the decomposition of the blood."

"A local mutation, perhaps."

"You're not planning to study it, are you?"

Triss sighed. "No. As fascinating as it would be to describe a new mutation, this is too dangerous. Can you imagine the destruction that could be harnessed by harvesting the creature's blood?"

"Yes, I can."

"We both need to rest. It'll take several more sessions to repair the damage." She touched his forehead. "Sleep."

Geralt woke to streaming sunshine and Jaskier sitting beside him, his arm still in a sling. He sat up, startling Jaskier. "How is your shoulder?"

"You're awake! How are you feeling? Better? You look better. Why didn't you mention how beautiful Triss is?"

"All sorceresses are beautiful."

Jaskier chewed on that thought for a moment. "Really?"

"I thought you were a bard. How d'you not know that?"

He spluttered indignantly, then regarded Geralt with narrowed eyes. "You're trying to distract me. How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"You wouldn't wake. Triss said you needed the sleep, but you slept so long…"

Geralt frowned. "How long has it been?"

"Since Triss arrived? Three days. Before she left this morning, she told me to ask if you can feel your toes now."

He cautiously attempted to move them. They scrunched and wiggled under his command, the blanket slipping smoothly over them. He turned to Jaskier with a huge smile on his face, and Jaskier tackled him to the bed, laughing. 

"Ow," Jaskier groaned. 

Geralt pushed him up, concerned. 

Jaskier grinned sheepishly. "Can you believe that I became so wound up in your recovery that I forgot my shoulder hurts?"

It wasn't hard to believe at all. "Did the healer look at it?"

"Greta? Lovely woman, don't you think? She took me in hand as soon as she finished treating you."

Geralt snorted, and Jaskier looked at him, faux scandalized. "Did you just take my words in the most juvenile possible way?"

In lieu of answering, Geralt clamped his hand on the muscle he knew always ached fiercely with a shoulder injury and began massaging. Jaskier melted into it. "Ooh, ooh, yes, that-that's wonderful. Yes, keep doing that."

"Turn around, scoot up here."

Jaskier scrambled to sit between Geralt's legs. Geralt slowly massaged Jaskier's back and shoulders until Jaskier sighed and slumped against his chest. Geralt wrapped an arm around Jaskier's uninjured side and pressed kisses to the side of his neck. 

Jaskier twisted to catch Geralt's mouth. When he broke the kiss, he said, "I was so afraid for you, Geralt. You weren't fooling me, you know, with your talk about returning home and having someone to live with. I never would have seen you again, would I?"

Geralt snuggled him closer. "No."

"You're worth more than an unmourned death the second you aren't perfect."

"Wouldn't have been unmourned."

"You're right because I never would have stopped missing you. Promise you won't leave me like that?

Feeling surged in Geralt's chest. "I promise."

"Good. Now, kiss me until I forget to be terrified of that beast."

That was an order Geralt was glad to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [ Tumblr ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/miahclone/)for Witcher fic-recs, snippets, occasional prompt fills, and just because I love talking about these awesome characters.
> 
> If you enjoyed my writing and would like to reblog this story, you can [ do so here!](https://miahclone.tumblr.com/post/633785843288522752/jaskier-big-damn-hero-chapter-6/)


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